Saturday, September 14, 2013

Uncle Harold had passed away in northern New Hampshire, a
mere two weeks after being moved to a hospice care facility a few blocks from
his home.

It was just around Thanksgiving, and while many would say
that his death was something to be thankful for because it meant he could stop
suffering, it was hard to feel anything except sadness, and perhaps a bit of resignation,
mixed with pain upon remembering one’s childhood and how a keen sense of the
Gothic keeps most people from flinging open the cellar door to the horrors of
first-awareness – the first time you were aware of death (and attendant rot),
of religion (and the lake of fire that awaited you), of parental love (and the
betrayal, forgetfulness, and simple asymmetry of the fact that the prodigal is
always the pet, the beloved, the favored, and ultimately the doomed.)

It was my understanding that Harold was always the coddled,
favored baby. I paid little attention to that when I was young. I had my own
sibling rivalry narratives to attend to.

For me, Uncle Harold symbolized the coming of Christmas, and
it was usually the weekend after Thanksgiving when the doorbell started to ring
with packages and other special deliveries: neatly wrapped presents from Uncle
Harold, placed under the Christmas tree, and duteously squeezed and shaken and
sniffed until finally the sheer impossibility of guessing what he might have
sent made me leave them in peace.

Still, I liked to creep out of bed in the middle of the night,
turn on the Christmas tree lights, and gaze upon the shiny bows, wrapping
paper, and ornaments that festooned both tree and presents.

When I was growing up, it seemed to me that Uncle Harold had
the most exciting life of anyone I knew. He was constantly sending letters
posted from exotic parts of the world – from ports in hot, exotic climes where
people wore long draping outfits through which air hot, dry air could flow, and
where the custom of the landlubbers was to sleep through the heat of the day in
siestas or to sit quietly and reflect upon one’s life while large ceiling fans
slowly whirred overhead.

Uncle Harold was in the Merchant Marines, and he traveled by
merchant ship to all the important (and exotic) ports of the world.

Technically, Uncle Harold was a Vermont resident. But, that
is not how I envisioned him. He traveled all around the world, and I imagined
him face-to-face with elephants, rhesus monkeys in the employ of dockside organ
grinders, fortune-tellers, and mysterious strangers.

I wasn’t quite sure what his job was in the Merchant
Marines, but I think I remember my dad saying was that he was a cook. Being a
cook in the Merchant Marines seemed very interesting to me as well, and I
wondered if they ever incorporated local specialties – mainly sweets and breads
– into the dinner. Envisioned empanadas filled with chicken or spicy ground
beef, or sweet, nutty baklava, prepared with honey, pistachio nuts, and
saffron, the Azerbaijani way and not the Turkish way.

In the days before the Internet, but fully within a time of
global communication (albeit slow and expensive), each country and even each
city had its own culture, with unique language, religion, dress, cuisine,
holiday celebrations, work and family customs, cuisine, were overtly unique,
unlike today, where cities are, at least superficially, similar.

I could imagine Uncle Harold in Casablanca, inhabiting the
same “noir” space as Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. I could easily see him in Alexandria, Egypt,
wearing a fez, and eating a breakfast of dates, flatbread, and feta cheese.

What I remember most about Uncle Harold of those years,
besides the exotic persona, was his generosity. He never failed to send
birthday cards, which always delighted and surprised me. Why me? What did I do
to deserve a card? The truth was, nothing. But, Uncle Harold felt a bond and a
serious commitment to family, which I think was quite remarkable, given the
times we lived in. These were, after all, a time when all the eternal verities
were questioned.

Each year, sometime after Thanksgiving, the magic would
happen, and mysterious packages would start to arrive. They were elaborately
wrapped, each with cards, intended to be deposited under the Christmas tree,
with absolutely no opportunity for opening until Christmas Day. Uncle Harold always sent me a gift, as well
as a gift for my brother, sister, and parents. Sometimes he sent food packages
for the entire family. They were invariably from the high-end gourmet
catalogues that fascinated me with their glossy pages and descriptions of
petit-fours and other very exclusive, “haute monde” items.

My sense of Uncle Harold as a world traveler, raconteur, and
gourmand was reinforced every Christmas. The fact that Vermont was the
playground of the Rockefellers, and then, later, aggressively environmentalist,
was cemented. Vermont might be quaint, but the residents were discriminating
world travelers – more than you might expect in a place that prided itself on
its catamounts and white-tail deer.

When I learned that Uncle Harold had passed away, I felt a
sharp pang of sadness. I felt sad for his loss, but perhaps a sharper pang
because I realized that his last decade of life was so antithetical to the life
he lived when he was always on the high seas, moving from port to port, alive,
alert, and eager to share his encounters and experiences with his young niece.

It seems unfair – very unfair – that Uncle Harold had to
suffer so long, and for people to have memories of Uncle Harold, the frail man
who rarely traveled more than 10 miles from his home. How ironic is that? He used to stay at least 1000 miles from home
in his passages in the commercial vessels.

As I consider Uncle Harold, his life, and his impact on me,
I realize that the letters from faraway lands and the presents arriving at the
door were pure magic for a lively-minded grade school girl who dreamed of some
day going on missions and living in exotic lands.

Did that actually happen?
Yes, in its way, I suppose. But that’s another story for another day.

Today, though, I’d like to think of Uncle Harold beholding
those amazing lands and seas.